


Quietus

by Zoe Rayne (MontanaHarper)



Series: A Man's House Burns Down [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Established Relationship, Jossed, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-15
Updated: 2007-09-15
Packaged: 2017-10-11 20:37:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontanaHarper/pseuds/Zoe%20Rayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't really the end of the world; it only feels like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quietus

Through it all, the two remaining Winchesters hold to what they know: salting and burning, exorcism, impalement and beheading and evisceration. Dean fights, killing every last evil son of a bitch he can get his hands on; Sam pores over old books and chases rumors, looking for a way to save his brother. They live each day like it's their last, and each night like it's their first. They speak to each other in a private, wordless language of touch and taste and sweat-slick skin, any hesitation or vestiges of shame vanishing like the mirage of Dean's future.

Three-hundred and sixty-four days, and at the end of it Sam has no better solution than he had on the first, no sudden miraculous way to break the contract and save Dean's life, rescue him from eternal damnation.

On the three-hundred and sixty-fifth day, they stand shoulder to shoulder at the crossroads and watch as the sun is swallowed by the horizon, the Impala solid and familiar at their backs. Dean's knuckles brush the back of Sam's hand and Sam tangles their fingers together, holding on. He knows the instant Dean hears the baying of the hellhounds, can feel it in the tightening of Dean's grip and the tensing of his shoulders.

Sam doesn't let go.

When he looks over, Dean's face is turned away, chin tilted like Dean's looking into the sky, only Sam knows there's nothing to see up there except darkness. He swallows against the lump in his throat, watches a muscle in Dean's jaw work. His failure presses down on him, heavy on his chest, the weight making it hard to breathe. He rubs his thumb against the fragile skin on the inside of Dean's wrist, and ignores the heat prickling up behind his eyes.

There's a soft, feminine cough, and Sam's gaze follows the sound to a petite brunette in a slinky black dress and heels. "Sam Winchester," she says, her tone flirty and her voice a contralto he might find sexy under other circumstances. "Here to continue the family tradition of trading your soul for the life of a loved one?"

"No," Dean spits out before Sam even has a chance to respond.

Sam squeezes Dean's hand lightly. "No," he agrees. It's not an easy offer to turn down; he's killed for Dean, and would die for him without question. It's going to be a hell of a lot harder to live for him, but he promised ("... _you gotta keep kicking demonic ass, Sammy, even after I'm gone_...") and he's not going back on his word. Someone's got to stop this fucked-up cycle; it might as well be him.

The demon smiles sadly. "Pity," she says. "I'd love to collect the whole set."

"Sweetheart, you couldn't even hang on to one of us." Dean smirks at her. "No way could you handle all three."

"Dean," Sam says softly, a warning he knows Dean hears but will probably ignore anyway.

"Time to say goodbye to your boyfriend, Sammy." She pauses and her eyes widen in an exaggerated look of surprise. "Oops. I mean your _brother_."

Sam ignores the dig. "Give us a minute," he says, hating that it sounds like begging. "Please."

A knowing smile spreads across her face, and for an instant her almond-shaped eyes flash red. "You can have five, because I'm a romantic at heart."

Sam wants to put his fist through that smile, break those too-white teeth and pour holy water down her throat and send her the fuck back to Hell. Instead, he winds the fingers of his free hand into the front of Dean's shirt and tugs until they're face to face, close enough to breathe each other's air. The first kiss is barely more than the brush of Dean's lips against the corner of his mouth, and then Dean's leaning in closer and Sam can feel him trembling. Sam deepens the kiss, keeping it slow and easy, like he has all the time in the world to learn the lush curve of Dean's lower lip, to savor the scrape of stubble against his cheek as he nuzzles Dean's jaw. Every touch, every moment committed to memory, filed away.

He's a breath away from breaking his promise to Dean, a heartbeat away from offering the demon whatever she wants if he can just keep his brother for another day, another week, another month. He inhales and it sounds more like a sob. "I'm sorry," he says, his forehead pressed to Dean's, and he doesn't know if he's apologizing for failing to save Dean, for even thinking about breaking his promise, or maybe for not killing Jake when he had the chance.

Dean pulls back, smoothes his thumb across Sam's cheekbone, through the tear tracks there. "Shhh," he says, gentle and soothing. "It's okay, Sammy." Like Sam can't see the fear in his eyes, or the glitter of unshed tears. Like he can protect Sam from this like he's protected Sam from everything else in their lives.

Sam leans in and kisses him one last time, as gentle and sweet as he can make it, trying to put a lifetime of feeling into it. "I love you so much," he whispers against Dean's mouth, and he feels Dean's lips curve into a smile.

The demon coughs delicately again.

Dean pulls back and Sam can see that he's still smiling slightly. He shrugs off his leather jacket and drapes it around Sam's shoulders before turning away. "Well, all right," he says to the demon, and Sam hears the faintest tremor in his voice. "Let's blow this popsicle stand."

"Don't worry, Sammy," the demon says as she reaches a hand out toward Dean. "You'll be seeing big brother again soon enough."

Dean's shoulders tense, and he pulls back before she can touch him. "What kind of double-cross—"

"With the things the two of you have done," she interrupts, and her laugh is subtly wrong somehow, like powdered glass in Sam's ears, "the sins you've committed? Little Sammy's already got a one-way ticket to Hell. No double-cross, Dean. I don't need to. You already did the heavy lifting for me when you started fucking your brother."

Sam's breath catches for an instant. "Don't listen to her, Dean," he says, his voice rough and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Demons lie. You know that."

Dean shoots him a look. "Lying or telling the truth, it doesn't matter. Go to confession, Sam. Better safe than sorry." Even before Dean finishes the sentence, Sam is nodding, but the gesture is a lie. There's no point in going to confession, because there's no forgiveness without repentance, and Sam can't feel remorse for what they've done, can't honestly regret a second of it.

This time Dean doesn't move when the demon reaches for him, when she presses her hand—small and dainty, with short red-lacquered nails—against his chest, just over his heart. He stiffens and she grins over at Sam, baring her teeth like a wild animal. "Looks like we have something in common, Sammy," she says as Dean collapses to the ground. "I'm not the only one who can't hang on to a Winchester."

There's a howl off to Sam's left, and his head snaps around, half expecting to find a hellhound bearing down on them, but there's nothing there. When he looks back, the demon is gone.

Dean hasn't moved.

Sam takes a step toward him, but his legs don't want to hold him up anymore and he falls to his knees. Dean's skin is still warm, his body a familiar weight in Sam's arms, but there's no fluttering pulse under the trembling fingers Sam presses to his neck, no reassuring rise and fall of his chest. Sam closes his eyes and pulls Dean closer, holding on to his brother because it's either that or let go of him entirely and he's not ready to do that just yet.


End file.
